


but I can't hear a thing

by oh_simone



Series: magic get-along telephones [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Parallel Universes, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 09:02:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17525768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_simone/pseuds/oh_simone
Summary: “Wait,” Sam utters and stares. “Hold on. Stark. Tony. Who’s on the other end?”Stark turns to him with a savage, manic grin. “The rest of the world.”





	but I can't hear a thing

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks Minty for the read through, and for the new year resolution to write more.

Stark walks into the war room far too quickly for his injuries, which makes everyone gathered at the holographic console look up and frown with varying degrees of concern. There is the king, of course, and his mother, the sullen blue alien Nebula, and Sam. Barnes is there too, sitting in the corner methodically rewrapping a bandage with no expression. He doesn’t look up when Stark, trailing disapproving attendants, limps right up to the center table.

“Mr. Stark,” T’Challa says, “You should be resting.”

“What he said,” Sam says, despite himself. They all should—just shy three days from the end of the world, and no one remaining has slept much. Stark’s eyes flick to him briefly, but distractedly, and not with the cool dismissiveness that has colored much of their recent interactions.

“Listen to this,” Stark orders instead, and brandishes a phone to the table at large. It is a black, solid flip phone, at least a decade out of style, and laughably clunky in its sleek, streamlined surroundings.

“Mr. Stark-” a doctor insists, and Stark shushes him viciously.

“Just, for one second, alright? Listen!”

The phone in his hand quivers, and despite themselves, everyone at the console leans forward.

The phone’s screen is lit a dull blue, but there’s nothing—just meaningless, glaring, silence.

“What are we hearing?” T’Challa asks after a moment, and Stark’s expression twists in—fear.

“It’s on speaker phone,” Stark says, jamming at a button so that the volume bars are full. “It’s—can’t you hear it? He’s talking, he’s- he’s saying he’s alright.”

“Who?” Nebula snaps. “There is no sound from this ancient device. What is it, another music box?”

“They aren’t hearing it,” Stark says into the receiver. “What about me, do they hear me? Olly olly oxenfree?” He cocks his head, clearly listening to something no one else can hear.

Sam glances at the king of Wakanda, who’s gone somehow even grayer and grimmer upon realizing one of the world’s most iconic figures might have snapped under his watch.

“Hey, Tony,” Sam says cautiously. “Why don’t you take a seat, alright? You don’t look so hot.”

This time, the glare he gets _is_ dismissive.

“You,” Stark says, pivoting and gaze snapping to Barnes. “Hey, Eeyore. This is important.”

Bucky ignores him, thoroughly, and Stark makes an irritated noise, barks at the phone, “Okay, gimme something.”

There’s more silence as Stark listens, staring intently into a middle space, before he glares at Bucky again. “You once fell off the fire escape when Mary Carmichael ambushed you and tried to kiss you. Broke your fall on the delivery man’s cart, and he made you buy two pallets of apples.”

Slowly, Bucky’s head comes up, his expression utterly blank, and his hands fallen still. The whole room goes a strange, electric quiet.

“How do you know that,” Bucky says, and a gleam of triumph lights Stark’s eyes.

“Steve, it worked,” he crows into the speaker, and abruptly pitches forward against the console with a gasp of relief. “Oh, thank God. Thank God I’m not crazy.”

“Wait,” Sam utters and stares. “Hold on. Stark. Tony. Who’s on the other end?”

Stark turns to him with a savage, manic grin. “The rest of the world.”

 

Only Stark and Steve can hear each other from their respective ends of the phone call, which makes it both more and less confusing. More, because Tony spends half his time garbling questions from T’Challa and Nebula and Sam and the other half trying to debrief Steve about his world. Less because, well. Sam’s taken Intro to Film Studies and can spot ‘dramatic irony’ from a mile away.

There’s a minor crisis around dinnertime as the entire palace is sent scrambling for a power adapter when the phone’s low battery sign starts to flash, and Sam gets the dubious thrill of seeing the regal Queen Mother curse elegantly as she hunts through Shuri’s various drawers alongside the princess’s remaining lab assistants.

“This is ridiculous,” Her Majesty mutters when they finally plug the phone into a small, nigh obsolete (by Wakandan standards) portable generator with outlets.

“Sorry, Your Majesty. It’s magic,” Stark says with deep disgust, then glances up at Wanda, who’d drifted in to the room, attracted by the activity. “No offense.”

She shrugs. “Do you want me to take a look?” There’s a flat listlessness to her at odds with the now-charged atmosphere in the palace. Her loss is different than the way the world has been split. Sam’s not sure he trusts her to toast a bagel at the moment.

Stark clearly thinks the same because he turns to her fully, and also subtly places himself between her and the phone, charging on the console. “Not yet. We’re going to try and compile as much intel as we can, since I have no clue how long this connection will last, or if we can establish it again if it drops. What carrier is this anyways, Steve? T-Mobile? Not important. Wanda,” here Stark pauses, hesitant. “I… I’ll let you know when we’re ready for you, okay?”

Wanda stares back and doesn’t respond. There’s busy, purposeful commotion around them, but Stark holds her gaze steadily—and it’s not pity, but empathy, a private, shared grief for Vision that he’s letting her see. Finally, she inclines her head.

“Can I stay?” she asks, words practically lost in the background noise.

“Please,” Stark says simply, and waits until she locates and curls into a seat to turn back to the phone. “Alright, Cap, lay it on me, and don’t use small words. Yes, we’re set up for transcription so go ahead. What does Thor say?”

 

By midnight, the lab is mostly empty. T’Challa and Raymonda have a country in crisis after all, magic device or no, and retired hours ago. It is quiet now, Stark’s urgent one-sided dialogue having petered off into murmured asides between the phone and Nebula as he divides his focus between three holographic displays— something something _quarks_ something something _quantum realm_ something something _impossible! and yet_ …

Sam is tired, but too jittery to sleep; he ducks into his room for a throw that he drapes over Wanda, dozing in her chair. He’s otherwise out of his depth in this highly scientific and/or magical fiasco, and so he stops by the kitchenette for a round of coffees. This is practical, physical, mindless work. The coffee beans are fresh ground, local, and fair-trade, the machine is sleek and alien, but in the end it’s still just a press of a button and a hiss of steam and the splattering gurgle of coffee into the mug. He makes enough for several people, and balances the mugs on two trays, feeling unaccountably on firmer ground as he makes his way back to the main lab. When Sam arrives, he takes a moment to absorb, with fresh eyes, the absurdity of the scene before him.

With the revelation of Stark’s connection to a miraculous mirror-world, Bucky has somehow overcome his crippling guilt and reserve, and much to Stark’s mild consternation, has taken to following Stark closely, never more than a few steps behind, hanging on every relayed word, every weighted pause from Steve. Sam’s concerned—for one, Stark has settled on ignoring his new shadow, except for every once in awhile when he’ll genuinely forget, and then flinch when he finds Bucky’s ugly mug staring, dead-eyed and unblinking at him a yard away. It has gotten so that Nebula is clearly weighing the cost-benefit of breaking off Barnes’ arm and beating him away with it before possibly taking the arm for herself. 

And Steve swears he used to be a charmer, Sam thinks ruefully.

“Hey, Barnes,” Sam calls. “Come help me with these.” He holds that muted, furious gaze steadily, going so far as to raise a pointed eyebrow even. The Winter Soldier's pissed at him— so what? All of Sam’s friends were dead. Sort of.

After a pause, Bucky stalks over, lock-jawed, and Sam takes his life in his hands again by shoving a tray of coffee into one metal arm and clasping the flesh one.

“You're coming off a little strong, bud,” Sam tells him softly. “Pass these out and come sit down for a moment.”

For a moment, Bucky looks ready to deck him. But then he spins and stalks across the room, shoving coffee at the few, bleary eyed technicians left in the room and if the caffeine doesn’t wake them up the sight of the Winter Soldier bearing down on them with murder in his eyes does.

Sam offers coffee to Nebula who gives him a scathing look in return, and turns to Stark, who takes his portion and Nebula's as well with a muttered thanks.

“’You’re welcome,” Sam replies. Stark's gaze flits sidelong to him.

“You know you’ve been pretty quiet there, Wilson,” he says casually. “Any uh, messages you wanna pass along? Besides to Steve, I mean.”

Sam thinks about. He'd been able to get both parents on the phone, but calls to his sister have ended in silence, and her husband isn’t picking up either. A few hours ago, Sam’d have been forced to face reality—but now? Now that there’s a chance of a solution? Sam almost doesn’t want to know which side of the universe they’ve fallen on, not until this is over.

“Thanks, but,” he says, “Let's focus on fixing this.”

Stark nods sharply. “Whenever you change your mind,” he says, refocusing on the holographic display. It's an awkward olive bench, but Sam's good at recognizing the unspoken.

“Thank you,” Sam says, and Stark shrugs like his offer of help isn’t the first real thing Stark's said to him in years. Sam leaves an extra coffee next to his work station and goes back to steal one for himself from Bucky.

 

Around four in the morning, Sam jolts awake from uneasy dreams to find that his coffee has grown cold, Wanda’s thin but warm blanket over his lap, and Bucky slumped next to him, eyes slitted open, but otherwise relaxed. The room is dimmer and emptier, and the sky through the windows is the satin blue-black before dawn. Even Nebula has absented herself, and only Stark, perched on the very edge of a white chair alongside the console is still upright. He's bowed over the phone with one hand supporting his chin, the other palm flat on the table to leverage his balance.

Bucky nudges him, and when Sam glances over, Bucky touches an index finger to his lips and then tilts his chin fractionally towards Stark. The look on Bucky's face-- it's no longer the frightening, emotionless mask of the Winter Soldier. He looks tired and lined with sorrow, but amusement curls his lips and softens his eyes.

Sam settles back in his seat, pulls the blanket a bit higher. In the still, pre-dawn air, Stark's voice carries, even at a low murmur.

“…n’t wanna talk. No,” he says into the phone, but there’s no heat to it—the late hour, and the, what, twelve hours and going marathon call with Steve, it’s muted the urgency. Stark’s mouth forms brittle, curt words with a softened patina that is almost warm. “Boundaries, Rogers. Just because I can’t hang up on you doesn’t mean you get to bully me into this convers—yes, it is, Rogers. Cruel, shameless bullying. Oh, it’s like that, huh? You want to hear about it all? All the nights I cried myself to sleep, gnashing of teeth, letter burning, eat-love-praying?” A long pause, and then Stark chuffs weary laughter. “Well, I’m a very accomplished and busy man, who happens to be an excellent multi-tasker. Who says I wasn’t doing all that _while_ revolutionizing nanotechnology?”

Sam both wishes he was asleep still, and that he could hear the other side of the conversation. It’s a private conversation, and long overdue, but. Just to hear Steve’s voice again, to hear _everyone’s,_ and to make sure this isn’t a horrible fake-out born of one man’s psychotic break.

Next to Sam, Bucky has closed his eyes. Not asleep yet, but listening peacefully.

“…look, Cap,” Stark mutters. “It’s late, and it’s been a truly unbearable day. But listen, yes, I’m still mad. It was a shitty thing to do to your… to anyone. Oh, now we’re friends, huh jackass?” He sighs a little. “Whatever. Alright. And fine, my timing and presentation was, as I’ve been told, a little bit ham-handed. The execution—shoddy. I shoulda brought in the Starkettes, would that’ve gotten your attention? …Ha! Fine, fine. We’ve got a lot to do… Why not? But—never mind that. You know what pisses me off the most about you? You get Pepper and Peter. And Rhodey! They are movers of mountains! The best people! That’s unforgivable.” Stark pauses, half-smiling. “What’m I supposed to do with Sam Eagle and Ivan Drago? Well, Wilson brought me coffee, he can stay, but Bucky is going to have to go; he’s about to drill a hole through my skull with his glaring… What do you mean ‘that’s just his face’? … Clearly, not enough, because it stuck.”

Bucky’s listening to Steve, Sam realizes. The empty spaces between Stark’s short rejoinders are full of _Steve_.

It’s clear, now that Sam has caught the trick—to hear the cadence of Steve’s words reflected in Stark’s responses; his concerns, allayed, derided. Steve’s apologies gently mocked and savored, his fears soothed, his hopes strengthened.

The silence isn’t meaningless. Sam suddenly struggles to breathe evenly around the hard lump in his throat as it hits him, glad that Barnes isn’t looking at him, that Stark doesn’t know he’s awake.

Simply knowing is not enough—it won’t be, not until Bucky has Steve beside him again, Tony has Pepper and Rhodey and Peter back, and Sam can call his sister and tell her, “I love you so much, but your lasagna still needs more salt” and have her shriek retribution over the phone.

But it’s a start, knowing that the rest of the world is still there, hearing their silence from the other side of the universe.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're into it, [commentary](https://chouette.dreamwidth.org/142962.html)\+ teeny post-script at my DW.


End file.
